


Home Is Where I Learn (to Fly)

by fandomfrolics



Series: Craigslist 'Verse [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexuality, Depression, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, MIT Era, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfrolics/pseuds/fandomfrolics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers his time in college in phases of an irregular beat, the rhythm of memories that stick not neat and symmetrical like the perfect beads of his mother’s pearl necklace, but sharp and jagged, with moments of crystal-clear recollection planting their feet in an otherwise haze of days that have faded to a dull murmur.</p><p>Tony comes to MIT at 14 and leaves at 17. This is the story of what happens in between.</p><p>[A prequel of sorts to Missing Connections, though both that and this fic stand alone well enough. It's mostly that they're set in the same timeline]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday, August 27th 2006

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a much longer piece of work I've been meaning to put out for awhile now but it wasn't happening. To that end, I've decided to post it in chunks in an attempt to force myself to get it together. I can't promise regular updates but it's been outlined and mostly written so hopefully they shouldn't be too few and far between.
> 
> This fic is mostly AU in the time it takes place - since it's technically a prequel to Missing Connections (though they each standalone just fine), it has Tony at MIT from 2006-2009 instead of the late 80s as canon would (I think). Everything else, however, attempts to stay true to what little canon we have about Tony and Rhodey's time at MIT and my own personal experiences.
> 
> Title is loosely taken from Foo Fighters' Learn to Fly. Tags will be updated as I go.

_ Sunday, August 27th 2006 _

The day Tony Stark begins his life anew is grey and muggy, with the kind of dampness in the air that sinks down deep into bones. If he were to write a book about his experiences, this is where he would spend paragraphs waxing poetic on the mercurial nature of fall in Boston and its perfect analogy to his life. Instead, he just dodges around puddles and curses the ongoing drizzle that has coated all of his boxes and turned the end of his jeans into soggy, clingy, clumps.

His dorm, named East Campus, is actually two identical narrow buildings split down the middle by a courtyard, a fact that caused a bit of confusion when they arrived. Between that, the weather, and the clueless driver who lost his way, tempers are running short, not least of all Howard’s. There’s some kind of commotion in the courtyard. Tony can’t tell quite why but it seems to involve a lot of upperclassmen with power tools. He turns reluctantly away and heads for the stairwell to his building, hefting the duffel he’s lugging higher onto his shoulder.

The hike up the five flights to his assigned room does little to improve the group’s mood and Tony finds himself hurrying his small entourage along the tight hallway, scanning door numbers as he passes. The speed also serves the dual purpose of giving his parents as little time as possible to take in the décor. Though the hallways are industrial white at their base, most of the blank space is taken up by murals in varying flavors and family-friendliness. He stifles a giggle when he hears his mother’s loud gasp behind him, likely in response to the Pokémon orgy he’d just seen.

They pass through a wider space that seems to serve as a common area but don’t pause long enough for Tony to get more than a glimpse, just enough to take in the general feel of it - the LEDs strung up everywhere, the large pieces of wood piled in the corner, the mess of tools littering the table - enough for his lips to quirk up and a welcome warmth to fill his stomach.

The search takes him to a door near the end of the hall, slightly ajar. He shoulders it open so he can shuffle in and lets the bag he’s carrying thump down on the ground with a deep sigh. His nerves are already singing in anticipation of the next few minutes. His parents follow him in and Jarvis trails behind with the men bearing the bulk of his luggage. They disappear quickly enough after dropping their burden, leaving his family a little more space to take a good look around.

The room they’re crowded into isn’t even half the size of his bathroom at home. Which, yes, probably isn’t saying much but he thinks that wall to wall, the room can’t take more than three steps to cross. He’s heard that MIT does have some of the biggest dorms rooms around and he holds in a shudder at the thought of what those other college rooms must look like.

Unlike the hallways just outside, the room itself has been restored to a blank canvas. A bed stripped of sheets, a wooden desk and chair, a closet, and a tiny sink in the corner are all it seems to offer at first glance. Yet the fresh coat of uninspiring off-white isn’t enough to bury the history of students past - markings scratched into the desk speak of long, frustrating study sessions and little holes dot the drywall in scattered constellations around the room. He thinks of the materials in the common space and is suddenly itching to begin making this little cube his own.

“I really don’t understand why you won’t just stay in the apartment I bought.” Tony turns around to find his father still hovering near the door, his lip curled unsubtly as he looks around the barren room. “You’ll be much more comfortable.”

Tony catches himself before his eyes roll and murmurs _I told you so_ to his own head.

“No, dad,” Tony sighs with the air of someone who’s had this argument a thousand times. Which is definitely an exaggeration - it can’t have been more than a hundred and fifty. “I told you. I don’t want to stay on my own. I want to stay with everyone else.”

His dad, of course, recites his lines perfectly. “Well, you’re not like everyone else.”

“Leave him be, Howard,” his mom cuts in, patting Howard on the arm.

Howard’s phone goes off just as he opens his mouth to argue and just like that his attention has been snapped away. He disappears out into the hallway, tapping intently at the device in his hand and leaving his wife looking thoroughly fed up behind him.

She turns to the other man in the room. “Jarvis, are we all set here?”

Tony blinks, a little surprised to find that his bed has been made and clothes unpacked and kept away.

“All of Master Tony’s essentials have been put in place, yes.” Jarvis shoots him a glance. “I thought Master Tony would prefer to arrange the rest of his things as he saw fit.”

Tony feels a sudden swell of gratitude and flashes him a small smile in return.

“Very well. I suppose we should get going then. Howard?” his mother says, raising her voice on the last word.

Howard appears back in the doorway after a moment, his focus still very much on his phone. His mom clears her throat and Howard glances up, then slips it back into his pocket with a huff.

“Alright,” Howard says, stepping forward and frowning down at Tony. Tony clasps his hands behind his back and stares obediently back, trying to force down the defiance that’s fighting its way into his expression. “This is it, Anthony. Your chance to show everyone that you’re more than just a spoiled brat. You’re not to waste it away on booze and parties, understand? You’re here to learn.” He narrows his eyes and sticks out his index finger. “I don’t want to hear any more complaints like we used to get from Andover. It’s time to grow up now.”

“Yes, sir,” Tony replies and his father must hear the sulkiness in his voice because he sighs.

“I can see you’re going to have no problem with that,” Howard mutters. He sticks his hand out and Tony releases his tight hold on his own hand to shake it firmly, just like his father taught him to. Suddenly this feels no different from when his parents first dropped him off at boarding school a handful of years ago. “Work hard,” are the last words Howard says to him before he’s back on his device, already heading for the door.

His mom sends a glare after him. Before Tony has a chance to throw out some flippant statement and a shrug, she reaches out and abruptly pulls him into a hug. Tony returns it tightly, slightly taken aback. He’s taller than her and he’s not quite sure when that happened but it means he has to bend his neck to hide his expression in her shoulder.

She lets go just as brusquely as she grabbed on and gives him a watery smile. “Have a good semester,” she says softly. And then with one last gentle pat to his cheek, she turns on a heel and follows after Howard.

A soft cough jolts him out of his stupor and he tears his gaze away from the open door, where the clacks of his mother’s high heels have faded away. He hadn’t noticed Jarvis standing off to one side, quietly watching the whole exchange. He takes his turn in front of Tony just as Howard did but the tension that had straightened Tony’s posture before seems to have disappeared.

“Well,” Jarvis says, “I suppose this is the time for goodbye.”

“Suppose so,” Tony says, staring down at his shoes.

Jarvis plants a hand on each shoulder and Tony tilts his head up to look into the taller man’s eyes.

“There seem to be a dozen things I could say to you right now,” Jarvis starts quietly. “I could try ‘be good’ but I do not truly believe that that is what university is for. I doubt you would listen anyway,” he adds and Tony grins.

“I could say ‘make me proud’,” he continues slowly, “but I’m afraid, Master Anthony,” and his voice cracks, “that you already have.”

Suddenly Tony finds himself lunging forward until his arms are wrapped tight around Jarvis and Jarvis is immediately hugging him back, just as firm. He feels him kiss the top of his head and then he lets go. “I’ll see you in a few months,” Jarvis says. Tony doesn’t think he can speak through the sudden lump in his throat so he just nods briskly. He thinks he sees Jarvis dab at the corner of his eyes as he leaves and he swipes at his own.

And then he’s alone.


	2. Wednesday, August 30th 2006

_ Wednesday, August 30th 2006 _

Orientation Week is a blur of faces and words. There's a strange tension as everyone scrambles to find a group to clutch on to, determined as they all are not to spend the next four years alone.

Tony doesn't have a group. He’s gone to maybe one orientation event and grabbed food at a couple of others and bailed because _god_ were they lame. (It’s got nothing to do with the whispers and pointing that seems to follow him through every door, nor with the thought that he’s never heard so many people speculate about his age in so short a time).

The only event he makes a point to show up to isn’t even official. All he knows is that he has to show up to the rendezvous point outside his dorm a little after midnight, a conceit that sounds intriguing enough for him to put his contrary nature to rest for a night. He makes it with a couple of minutes to spare and leans up against the wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. There’s a small group of freshmen nearby, their heads ducked low as they listen to a petite girl tell a story. He shoots them a glance or two but stays in his corner and keeps his gaze mostly on the huge contraption in the middle of the courtyard.

The commotion from the day he’d moved in turned out to be a bunch of kids transforming the wood he’d seen into an actual working roller coaster, apparently a tradition of his dorm during this time of year. Tony had walked the length and breadth of it enough times that he could call up his own blueprints of it in his head but he’d yet to take a ride.

A burst of loud giggles draws his attention to the group again. This time, one of the kids in the group catches his eye and gives a little wave. It's all Tony can do not to spin around and to look for the person behind him. Instead he hunches further into his hoodie and looks away, only sparing a quick glance back to see if he knows the guy.

The kid is still staring at him, his big grin faltering a little, though it's hard to tell in the spotted light flickering from the lampposts down through the trees. His teeth are fucking shiny though and stand out in deep contrast to his dark skin. Tony squints a little and thinks they maybe live on the same floor and with a small shrug to himself, pulls one hand out of his hoodie and gives a brief wave back. The kid seems satisfied enough and turns back to the story his friend is still telling.

Before Tony has the chance to think too hard about it, two guys in black t-shirts show up to lead them all away. They end up in a huge classroom, one that looks to fit about three hundred in stadium-style seating and is probably where he's going to be confined to gen-ed hell. The room fills up to about half-capacity pretty quickly, with kids in black shirts scattered around the room.

One of them, a tall, thin girl with her curly hair tugged aggressively back, stops in the front, hands on her hips. "I am Jack Florey," she says.

In the harsh, fluorescent lighting, Tony can now see that her shirt, all of their shirts, are printed with the label of Jack Daniels bottle, though instead of Jack Daniels, the shirt reads Jack Florey and instead of Tennessee Whiskey they say, he notices with a squint, Old No. 5 Roof & Tunnel Hackers.

Suddenly he has a much clearer idea of what he’s in for and he sits up a little straighter, a bolt of excitement jolting through him.

“Welcome to MIT’s one and only Orange Tour, your behind-the-scenes ticket to the who’s who and what’s what of hacking.”

The boy next to her steps forward, pushing his glasses up his nose before he speaks. “For those of you who don’t know, hacking at MIT doesn’t mean exactly what it means everywhere else. Sure, once in awhile a computer’s involved but mostly it’s a lot of crawling into spaces and lugging heavy things.”

The girl takes over again. “A hack is basically a clever prank done _by_ students _for_ students. Of course, if the rest of Boston thinks it’s funny, more power to you. But for the most part, the hacks you’ll see over the next four years will be small, usually MIT or nerd culture related, setups around campus.”

“What we’re going to show you tonight is how to get into some of the, how shall we say it, more _inaccessible_ parts of campus,” the boy chimes in.

“First things first.” The girl claps her hands. “Some ground rules. Hacking is a dangerous business and we don’t take safety lightly. For those of you who did the Tangerine Tours at CPW, a lot of this will seem familiar but that’s not free license to let your minds wander. Now that you’re real students instead of innocent little pre-frosh, the stakes are quite a bit higher so listen up!”

Tony hadn’t been to Campus Preview Weekend - there had never been a question of whether he was going to come here so what was the point of visiting? Still, though this is all new information, it’s hard to keep his attention on the girl’s words and not on the ideas for hacks that are already churning in his head. She seems to sense the itchiness emanating from the freshmen though and keeps it blessedly short and sweet.

“Basically,” she sums up after a couple of minutes, “be safe, don’t damage anything, don’t damage any _one_ , and last but not least, be funny! The whole point of these hacks are to make us poor suffering MIT kids laugh, even if only for a few minutes before we go back to crying over p-sets. Now, with all that in mind, we’re going to break you up into more manageable groups. Remember, if anyone asks, cop or otherwise your name is…”

She holds her hand to her ear and the crowd of freshmen chorus dutifully back “Jack Florey!”, just as they had been trained to during her safety lecture.

She nods, satisfied, then gestures to her fellow Jack Floreys waiting along the wall.

Somehow Tony’s group of twelve includes the kid from before. He nudges Tony as they trail obediently behind their leader, down some dimly lit stairs. “Hey again,” he says.

Tony just nods back.

“Fifth West right?” the kid says.

So he did live on the same floor after all. “Uh, yeah,” Tony says, trying not to trip as they reached the bottom, where the light seemed to have disappeared almost completely.

“Me too,” the kid says, excitement in his voice. “Name’s James. James Rhodes.”

“St-- Tony. My name’s Tony.”

“Nice to meet you, Tony. So you gonna stay?” At Tony’s blank face, James adds, “in East Campus. You rushing another dorm?”

He knows he’s supposed to have spent this week exploring each dorm and their unique personality but, “The dorm that built a fucking roller coaster in their front yard for freshmen to ride? I think I’m good.”

James grins. “Me too.”

He seems about to ask something else but is cut off by their guide shushing them. Tony’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

The next couple of hours is a whirlwind of tunnels and rooftops, of dodging hot pipes and cobwebs and learning to get through doors with both cards and broken bits of CDs. Along the way, their guide throws out stories of hacks of years past and continues to stress the importance of safety.

“Never hack alone,” he says for about the fifth time as he boosts them up one by one through a open flap in the ceiling. “If nothing else,” he says with a grunt as he pushes a girl up, “it sure as hell makes it easier. And needless to say, never, _ever,_ drink and hack.” Tony fidgets, feeling as if he’s being targeted specifically though the guide is looking nowhere near him.

When they’re all up on the roof, the guide gathers them close, a bit of a task since most of them have been captivated by the gorgeous view of the Boston skyline. He points out a few landmarks, filling in with a couple of hacks that bold students had done to buildings outside of MIT’s little bubble.

“See that squat looking building with the pole on top, the one with the blinking blue light?” the guide says, pointing behind him. “That’s the old Hancock building, the super tall one nearby is the new one. Anyway, that light up there’s Boston’s own weatherman. There’s a handy poem, goes ‘Steady blue, clear view, flashing blue, clouds due, steady red, storms ahead, flashing red, snow instead.’ Now, I can’t speak for it’s accuracy but all you need to know is if it’s flashing red on game day, it means the Sox game has been called off and if it’s flashing red and blue, means the Sox has finally won a World Series, which happened a couple of years back. Of course, you didn’t really need to look at that light to know that, just had to open a fucking window, I swear the whole city went _nuts_. I hope none of you are Yankees fans because you’re gonna have to keep that to yourself if you want to survive.”

Their guide goes off on this tangent for a little while and Tony loses interest. He does a slow turn on his heel, taking in all of Boston and the rest of MIT and Cambridge behind him. The blue light may mean clouds were coming but they sure weren’t there yet. The sky in front of him is as clear as anything and there’s a light breeze in the air, keeping the temperature just about perfect for his get-up of hoodie and jeans.

He rubs hard at his eyes. It’s peaceful up here, despite the small crowd around him and the droning voice of ‘Jack Florey’, who’s now rambling on about Tom Brady and the Pats. Tony can already feel that he’s going to spend a lot of his time wondering these rooftops. The tunnels, maybe not as much. They were stuffy and dusty and hot and made the hair on the back of Tony’s neck stand up. But there’s a stillness up here, mirrored in the water that separates him from the city beyond it, that loosens something in his gut. Above is a light scattering of stars, offset enough by the matching lights of the buildings that it’s reminiscent of the view out his home window. Still, it’s different. Smaller.

“Hey kid, you still with us?”

Tony jumps at the touch. He turns back around to find that the others have all gone back through the opening into the building beneath. The guide is looking at him with a gentle, easy smile, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other still hovering near Tony’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I, uh…” Tony clears his throat, shoving down the sudden realization of just how _old_ this guy was. “Sorry, got distracted.” He shrugged, the simple, familiar action bringing him back into his own head. “What can I say, sports bore me.”

The guide chuckled. “Sure, I get that.” He gestures at the opening with a nod of his head. “Unfortunately, we gotta keep on trucking.”

“Sure, yeah, gotcha.” Tony shuffles off towards the opening, grateful for the cover the dark night affords his face.

“What’s your name, kid?” the guide asks from behind him and Tony falters. This had to be a test, right?

“Jack Florey,” he says, trying to sound as confident as all those kids in black shirts had.

The guide just laughs again. “Should’ve expected that.” He rests a hand on Tony’s back, lightly nudging him towards the opening again. “No, I meant your real name. Nice job though.”

“Oh, uh, it’s Tony,” Tony says, rubbing at his nose.

“Tony, right. Listen, Tony. You’re not the first kid to come here a little premature and you won’t be the last. I’ve got no idea what that’s like since I’m about as average as they get here. Didn’t even skip a grade.” He huffs a little self-deprecating laugh. “What I do know is this.” The guide touches his arm lightly, pauses him before he heads back down, and rounds the opening so that they’re face-to-face across the hole in the ground. Tony glances up at him, instantly wary at the sudden earnest look in the guide’s eye. “MIT is tough shit. Sure, you might be one of the lucky ones for who school comes easy but that just means it’s gonna throw other crap at you.” He shrugs. “That’s what it does. You’ve seen the IHTFP letters around right?”

Tony nods. They’d been splashed across a lot of the orientation loot he’d gotten and scattered around random spots on campus.

“Know what it stands for?” At Tony’s shrug, he says, “I Hate This Fucking Place. And trust me, there’s gonna be plenty of days when you and everyone around you will yell exactly that. But here’s the thing about those letters. They take on a few different meanings over your time here: I Hate Those Fenway Players, I Hope To Fucking Pass, Iron Has Three Fundamental Properties, and so on and so on. You’ll hear a whole bunch. But you know what the other most common one is?” The guide lowers himself down so that he’s perching on the edge of the opening with his legs dangling through. “It’s my favorite one.” He grins up at Tony, a huge, cheek-splitting thing and there’s a light in his eyes that seems to outshine the ones scattered above them. “I Have Truly Found Paradise,” he says emphatically. And then he leans forward and drops down onto the floor beneath them.

Tony takes a last glance around, pulls in a deep breath of cool Cambridge air before he follows suit. The guide is already back at the front of the group. He shoots Tony a last smile before he turns around and begins to lead them back to their starting point - apparently this was their last stop. Tony’s glad, for as much as he’s enjoyed himself, his mind is whirring too much now and if he has to shuffle through another tiny crawlspace beneath dangerously hot pipes he’s not too sure that he’ll make it through entirely unscathed.

The truth is that he hadn’t really thought about what his time here was actually going to _be_ like. Coming to MIT had always seemed like a given. Even his acceptance had felt abstract at best. He’d been going through the motions he’d been set up for his whole life - like a wind-up toy playing out its path predetermined by the cogs and screws that made it up.

He hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe this _wasn’t_ the only path. As far as he was concerned, the faster he could go somewhere he was actually required to use his brain, the better. He was sure there was nothing MIT could show him that Phillips Academy hadn’t already thrown his way. Fourteen or not, college was the next logical step.

Looking back, there had been a hint of hesitance from his mother. Howard, of course, had been all for it from the beginning but his mom, she’d seemed a little more unsure. But between Tony’s obvious excitement and Howard’s no-nonsense tone, any misgivings she might have had were promptly drowned out. And though Jarvis had maintained a stoic silence about the whole thing, Tony could feel his disapproval every time the subject came up. But disapproval from Jarvis was something he was all too familiar with and it faded easily into the background.

Still, as Tony makes his way back alone to his empty bedroom, weaving nimbly through the kids ambling back with their much longer legs, he finds himself thinking of the guide’s words and wondering about this path he’d set off on.

He closes the door behind him and throws himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. IHTFP - essentially the letters spelled out two ways this could go. He’s not worried about the schoolwork and from what he’s heard, that’s overwhelmingly the problem for a lot of the other kids. There’s a reason they say getting an education at MIT is like drinking water from a firehose.

But if the last week had shown him anything, this place is going to challenge him in just as many other ways. He’s got no desire to repeat the bullshit at Andover. Sure, he knows intellectually there have to be ups and downs but that was no reason not to make sure it was far more up than down. With a sudden burst of energy, he pushes off his bed and goes to grab his screwdriver from his stash of tools. He perches on his knees on his chair, leaning onto his elbows so he could reach the very top of the desk. Then, very carefully, he painstakingly scratches five words into the wood and leans back to stare at his handiwork.

_I Have Truly Found Paradise_

He was going to make those fucking words come true if it fucking killed him.


	3. Thursday, August 31st 2006

_ Thursday, August 31st 2006 _

He glances again at the piece of paper crumpled in his hand. When he rounds the corner, he spots a group of kids lingering in the hallway outside a closed door. If he wasn’t sure this was where his adviser meeting was, the group of scared looking freshmen would be a dead giveaway. Tony rolls his eyes, shoulders through them and taps briskly on the wood.

Not a second passes before the door is yanked open and for a moment all Tony can see is yellow. He tilts his head up a little and finds the deep brown eyes of the man before him. The man is lanky, with stringy brown hair tugged back into a ponytail and a pair of round glasses perched on the end of his nose. The scruff around his mouth seems to have appeared there without the permission of its owner, as the pattern of patches don’t fit any style of facial hair Tony has ever seen.

The guy doesn't look a day over twenty.

"Hello," the man says and there's a deep warmth to his tone and a huge, toothy grin on his face and Tony resolutely stomps on the part of his brain scoffing _what a fucking nerd_ because this, this is his fresh start.

Instead he half-smiles through tight lips and ducks under the man's arm to enter the room. He can hear the other freshman chorus 'hellos' behind him as they shuffle in after but he's too busy trying to find the optimal seat to care.

The chair by the window seems the best bet and he curls up as best as he can on the rickety wood. So far, the rooms in this school have failed to wow him in the way he would expect a insanely rich, private university to and he's wondering why, if all of these people are such fucking geniuses, they can't make a fucking cushion.

This room seems more decorated than the last, though. There are strange sculptures scattered all over the room and as Tony leans forward to peer at one, he sees that they're made of thick colored paper – paper that has been folded and curled into beautiful, intricate swirls, but paper none the less. Just looking at it sends a string of numbers across Tony’s brain. It's math made into art in a way that he's never seen or even thought possible and his fingers are already itching to try their own.

The click of the door snaps Tony out of his trance and he looks up to see the man picking his way through the cluttered office and back to his desk chair. Tony notices the other three kids all looking around, mouths hanging open, and takes a second to wonder if his face looked that stupid just a few moments ago.

"So. Hey everyone!" The man beams around the room. "My name is Charles Anderson and I'm gonna be your adviser for the next year." He gestures to the student sitting closest to him, the only one that doesn't seem to be stuck in some kind of stupor, really, and says, "This is your associate adviser, Gary." Gary lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers but Tony barely spares him a glance.

"How old are you?" he asks instead, his eyes narrowed.

He hears another student gasp, the girl in the back who'd been bouncing on her toes when Tony'd first seen her, but Anderson just chuckles.

"I'm twenty-eight," he answers, completely unruffled. Tony's eyes widen and he quickly looks away. "I've been a professor at MIT for eight years," he continues.

Tony glances around the room and looks more carefully at his cohort, this time with new understanding. They're all a little bit smaller, a little bit more timid than the average eighteen-year old starting college would be. Still, he's probably the youngest by a couple of years and he doesn't know whether the thought should make him flinch or preen.

Anderson turns out to be an okay guy. He can’t really say the same for his peers, though. They do a few icebreakers, the entire group, but even then the others fail to exude any kind of charisma that would make Tony mark them for a potential partner-in-crime. He was right – they’re all a little young, a grade or two skipped here and there, but none of them like him. Apparently there's a Tony every three or four years though, as Gary deigns to inform them. The topic is torn away when somebody asks about the paper sculptures and the discussion instead turns to Anderson’s work in computational origami.

Thankfully the round of forced socializing soon ends. Tony leaves with a stirring in his gut because he thinks maybe this is MIT's way of babying him, just a little.

He goes from his adviser meeting to a couple of other offices, making his way through the minutiae of errands that have to be done to get him up and running as a student. They snap his picture for his student ID and tell him to wait ten minutes for it process. He takes a seat in one of the flimsy plastic chairs and bites on the edge of his thumb, his mind still going over the meeting he’d just come out of.

One of the many reasons he even applied to MIT was because he knew that here it didn't matter who his father was. They had, in theory, wanted him for his own merit. But if they thought he was enough to be here, he thinks, they should treat him like it. Not stick him with some glorified babysitter and a bunch of kids who looked like they still slept with a nightlight.

They finally call his name and when the lady behind the desk hands his ID over, Tony stares at his picture – at the roundness of his cheeks and the smoothness of the skin around his wide eyes.

It shouldn’t matter, he thinks. It _doesn’t_ matter what he looks like. He belongs here, same as anyone else. Not down the line, not when his body catches up to his brain, but _now_.

He tucks his ID into his wallet and flips it shut without another look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Charles Anderson is very loosely based on Erik Demaine, a current MIT professor who joined the faculty at age 20, making him the youngest person to do so in the history of MIT.


	4. Friday, September 1st 2006

_ Friday, September 1st 2006 _

He's back in Anderson's office again, this time just him, Anderson ('call me Charlie, please') and that useless lump Gary, and they're talking about classes and Tony starts to see why Anderson, despite his undeniable nerd factor and his penchant for cheesy catchphrases, is the man they've assigned to guide him through his freshman year.

"Technically, you're a sophomore," Anderson says once they’ve dispensed with small talk. "You've got more than enough credits for sophomore standing and I think you're pretty much good on all the basic requirements. But if I bump you up to Sophomore Standing, you’ll lose out on Pass/No Record. Do you know what that is?”

Tony shrugs. He’d barely read any of the orientation packet they’d given him that first day but the words sound vaguely familiar.

“It basically means no official grades for first semester freshman. You get a P on your transcript if you get an A, B, or C in the class. Otherwise, it’s like you never took it. It’s supposed to give you guys a little time to adjust to the rigors of college work. Are you okay without it?”

“Yeah, think I’ll be fine,” Tony replies unconcernedly.

Anderson looks from Tony down to his folder and back up again, and says, “I think so too,” and that’s about when Tony decides he likes him. “Okay then, so no TEAL—”

“Thank fuck,” Tony murmurs because he’d heard it’s fucking awful, with little clickers for students to vote in answers and group project after group project.

Anderson laughs and continues on. “— _but,_ if you still want to take physics classes, there’s a few here I can recommend. First though, now that you’re a sophomore, you have to pick your major. What’re you thinking, Course 8?”

“Which one’s that again?” Tony asks, brow furrowed. Somewhere in his corner, Gary unfurls enough to huff a laugh and Tony resists the urge to throw something at him.

“Physics,” Anderson replies easily.

“Right, and those classes are all in…” Tony leans forward and tugs the mess of papers on the desk towards him. “Building 6?”

Anderson nods, a small smile on his face.

Tony looks down at the sheet again. “And Course 16, which is Aeronautical Engineering—”

“Aeronautical/ _Astro_ nautical Engineering,” Gary corrects.

“Sorry, Aeronautical/ _Astro_ nautical Engineering,” Tony repeats with the same emphasis. “That’s in building 54. And if I’m looking at this map right, that’s in-between buildings 66, and, funnily enough, building 16!” Tony looks up at Anderson, slightly incredulous. “So what’s actually in building 16?”

“Humanities classes,” Anderson replies in a voice strangled with laughter.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Tony mutters.

Anderson reaches out a hand and gently tugs the map away, leaving the list of majors in front of Tony. “You’ll figure it out soon enough. In the meantime, _we’ve_ got to figure out which of these you want to spend the next few years doing.”

Tony slouches back in his seat. The words and numbers on the page mean little to him; they’re too limiting, too defined. “Well, I like making shit,” he says. “I don’t know what number _that_ is.”

“Preeetty much all of them,” Anderson says, a little singsong to his words. “How about this: we’ll start you off with some Course 6 classes, on both the Electrical Engineering and Computer Science sides, and then we’ll go from there.” Anderson pauses, glances down at Tony’s folder again. “Actually, maybe a Mechanical Engineering class too. Sophomore Standing also means no first semester credit limit so you should be good with six classes. We can always add more later. Sound good?”

Tony nods, his hand scratching patterns over the worn arm of his chair. “What number’s Mech E again?”

“2,” Anderson replies. “And EECS is 6.”

“So I’m doubling in 2 and 6,” Tony says, trying the words out on his tongue. It feels pretty good.

Anderson beams. “Exactly! Now, have you thought about which PE classes you want to take? Personally, I think you should try for a Pirate’s License.”

Tony frowns. “A what?”

Anderson huffs exasperatedly but there’s still a small curve to his lips so Tony doesn’t take it personally. He’s more than used to engendering that sound in people anyway.

“You didn’t read any of your info packet, did you? Well, can’t really blame you when there’s campus-wide water wars to be fought and liquid nitrogen ice cream to be eaten.”

“That was pretty gross, actually.”

It’s apparently enough of an insult to rouse Gary from his sloth. “You’re kidding me. That shit’s delicious! Better than Dippin’ Dots!”

Tony pulls a face. Anderson throws up a hand between them. “Alright, alright. Tony, you have to take four PE classes to graduate, on top of the swim test. Did you at least do that?”

Tony had, if only because it was one of the first things on the orientation schedule, back when he hadn’t figured out what was going on yet so he’d pretty much done as he was told. “And the boat test,” Tony says with a nod.

“Oh, good, then you can take sailing,” Anderson replies delightedly. “Then all you need is pistol and fencing and you’ll be a proper, certified pirate.”

Tony gapes at him. He opens his mouth but then just shuts it and shrugs, because if there’s anything he’s learned so far in his few days here, it’s to just roll with whatever this fucking place is throwing at him.

Anderson shows him how to register for PE classes, which apparently last just half a semester, and they go over a few more things before Tony’s allowed to leave. He’s pretty happy overall, though. Anderson had actually spent a decent amount of time listening to Tony, finding out his interests and abilities and scheduling him accordingly. Sure, he’d thrown in the occasional personal question and at the end of their meeting, urges Tony to come to him with any concerns with an annoyingly knowing look in his eye. But Tony just smiles politely and resolves that if he ever feels the urge to come crying to Anderson (or worse, Gary) with his personal problems, his life would really be at the lowest of lows and he should just shoot himself and be done with it.

He goes straight to the bookshop next with a list in hand and when he gets back to his room, flops onto his bed and cracks open the first textbook he pulls out of the bag. He falls asleep that way, many, _many_ , hours later, his book on his chest and a small smile on his face.


	5. Tuesday, September 26th 2006

_ Tuesday, September 26th 2006 _

“That’s great, Tony, but you don’t need to bang it _quite_ as hard.”

Tony glances up at Eileen Chin, his instructor for this class. She’s standing in front of him with a gentle smile and gesturing at the small drum tucked tightly under his armpit. “Remember, the tama is also known as the talking drum. _Not_ ,” she says with a tilt of her head, “the shouting drum.”

Tony nods, and with his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, taps lightly at the skin of the drum while squeezing it between his arm and his side. Eileen nods down at him. “That’s it, beautiful.” As she moves on to the next person, he unfolds his legs and re-crosses them the other way – sitting on this carpet always gives him pins and needles.

He watches interestedly as she gently corrects the positioning of one of his classmate’s fingers. All his classes so far have been completely enthralling. The professors lecture with enthusiasm, their eyes bright as they talk about their life's work, assign reading from textbooks they're writing the next edition of, listen intently and with genuine excitement at student's questions, despite how dumb some of them are (and Tony is shocked, really, at how _dumb_ some of them are). All in all, his academic life is so wonderful Tony’d pinched himself throughout the first week.

The one major requirement Tony hasn’t placed out of (other than PE but those aren’t for credit and seem mostly ridiculous anyway) is the humanities concentration. He’s to take one humanities class a semester, Anderson had told him, and he’d highly recommended Intro to World Music. It didn’t require Tony to wake up an ungodly hour so he’d agreed well enough.

It’d very quickly turned into his favorite times of the week. Sure, his other classes are amazing – it makes a _galaxy_ of difference to be in a classroom of people who actually care about what they’re learning – but there’s something immensely freeing about the ninety or so minutes spent twice a week listening to Tuvan throat singing or learning how to Bhangra. Something about doing something where he’s no better or worse than anyone else in the room – they’re all just discovering something new together. Besides, it’s a more than welcome change from all his Course 6 classes and the extensive amounts of coding that come with them.

He may, however, have gotten a bit carried away with today’s lesson.

This week’s topic is Senegalese drumming. If there’s anything to be said for the teaching methods at MIT, it’s that they know how to take the hands-on approach to the next level. The first of this week’s sessions has the class sitting around a carpeted classroom stacked with an entire wall of authentic Senegalese drums (Tony can’t wait until they get to learning gamelan – the other set of instruments which make up the room – because those hanging pots and pans definitely don’t seem like the kind of things you were supposed to tap at lightly).

Their guest instructors are all apparently part of Boston’s thriving afro-pop scene and even though Eileen has to translate most of what they say, they all have such an infectious energy and enthusiasm that the language barrier quickly disappears and the place begins to feel more like a festive carnival than a classroom.

The hour and a half flies by. As they file out the door, Tony’s already counting down the minutes until their next session – based on the excited chatter amongst the throng of classmates surrounding him, he’s definitely not the only one.

He’s trying to locate his Converse in the mess of shoes outside the classroom when he hears someone call his name. He sticks his head back in the door to find Eileen beckoning him over and something jumps in his gut. Hitching his backpack higher over his shoulder, Tony approaches nervously, trying to think back on what he could possibly have done wrong.

“So, how did you like today’s class?” Eileen asks as she picks up a large drum from the floor. Her simple smile puts him at ease and he lets our a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He drops his backpack to the ground with a heavy thump so he can help her clean up.

“It was _awesome_ ,” he replies with gusto. “I had a blast.” He slots the drum back into place on the shelf and turns back to pick up another one.

“I thought you did. Did you like the sabar?”

“Mmhmm.” Tony nods. “Hit myself with the stick a few too many times but it was still fun,” he says as he shakes his still-stinging hand out in front of him.

Eileen laughs. “Happens to the best of us,” she says, bending to gather said sticks from the floor. “How’s everything else going?” she continues. “Your other classes? Made some good friends?”

Tony’s glad his back is turned as he slides another drum back into its spot. “Classes are going alright,” he says, carefully avoiding the other question. “I think I probably could have handled a couple of more but I’m pretty happy with the ones I ended up with.”

When he turns back around, he finds Eileen watching him carefully. He ducks his head and picks up a last stray stick from the carpet.

“Well, if you want something else to do with all that time you seem to have, there’s a group I thought you might want to join.”

He drops the stick back in the bin and looks up at her, interest piqued. “Please don’t tell me it’s a cappella because trust me, you do _not_ want to hear me sing. Why the hell are there so many of those anyway?”

Eileen shakes her head. “No clue. Maybe people keep coming up with more mathematical puns for names and form groups just to use them,” she says dryly and Tony chuckles.

Eileen waves her hands, gesturing him towards the exit now that everything has been cleaned up. “But no, it’s not a cappella. It’s a Senegalese drumming ensemble that my husband runs here.”

“Oh.” It’s immensely easier to find his shoes now that he’s the only one left. He shoves his foot into one beat-up Chuck, wiggling a little to get it on. “Like what we did today?” he asks, balancing on one leg to tug the end of the shoe over his heel.

Eileen nods. “Exactly that. But it’s just sabar, so unlike the tama you had for awhile today, the harder you hit the better. Somehow, I think you’d enjoy that.” She grins. “And you’ll meet a lot of fun people. Lamine was even talking about taking the group to Senegal the next time he went back.”

“Woah,” Tony says, straightening up with the other shoe in hand. “That would be awesome.”

“It’s about three hours a week – two hours of instruction Mondays and then another hour-long rehearsal. Plus a couple of performances here and there. Interested?”

“I…yeah, I think so.”

“Great! They meet right here on Mondays, 7:30pm. I’ll tell Lamine to expect you next week.” She waves at him. “See you Thursday!”

“Oh, okay,” Tony says with a blink as she whirls away. “Bye,” he calls after her, and then it’s just him, standing half barefoot in an empty hallway with a dirty shoe dangling from his hand. He looks down at his feet and spots a hole in the big toe of his bright green socks.

And suddenly he can’t stop laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Rambax](http://rambax.mit.edu/) is MIT's premiere Senegalese drumming ensemble.


	6. Saturday, September 30th 2006

_ Saturday, September 30th 2006 _

The thing is, Eileen had seen right through what Tony’s been trying his best to hide – for all that he loves his classes, the rest of his life is ridiculously lacking. A few weeks in and he still finds himself spending night after night holed up in his room, sometimes mulling over problem sets but more often than not just throwing a tennis ball at the wall and trying to ignore the shouts of laughter from down the hall.

The others are friendly, sure, but every time he looks at them he can see his age flashing in their eyes. The seniors, especially, are unlikely to forget he's fourteen any time soon and he's half-wishing MIT would rethink their policy on freshman-only dorms.

He decides that maybe he just needs to get out more, meet some people other than the jerkwads down the hall or the idiots in his classes. There’s a party that night on one of the other halls of his dorm – one of the east side ones, across the courtyard – that everyone’s been buzzing about. It’s called Article Two and he has no idea what that means. All he knows is that he absolutely has to be there.

The girl at the door, apparently, disagrees.

“There’s no way I’m letting a fourteen-year-old into Article Two, are you kidding me?”

“What the fuck, why the hell not?”

She looks at him scornfully. “What, exactly, do you think the point of a theme is that only allows two article of clothing per person?” She leans against the doorframe and smacks her gum. “Are you even _allowed_ to look at naked people?”

Tony glares at her. “I’m _allowed_ ,” he shoots back, mimicking her tone, “to do whatever the hell I want!” He attempts to shove past her but unfortunately his lithe fourteen-your-old physique is no match for the fat cow in front of him. He really needs to start lifting. “Ugh, whatever!” He throws his hands up. “Who the fuck wants to go to your stupid party anyway.”

He stomps back to his room, shoving angrily past the half-naked people he passes on the stairs; closes his ears to the whispers and giggles that won’t stop _following_ him everywhere.

When he reaches his room, he slams the door, paces around for a few minutes, kicks his bedpost a couple of times, and suddenly feels way too cooped up. Throwing open his closet, he grabs the first hoodie he can find and tugs it over his head on his way out the door. So what if he can’t go to some dumb party, he sure as hell isn’t gonna stay here in his room like some weirdo loser.

He finds himself on the rooftop of the Stata Center, the bizarre fucking building that was designed by some famous architect but really just looks like something out of a Cubist painting. It’s easy enough to get up there – the strange angles may be hideous as all hell but they sure as hell make for easy climbing. The only part that gives him pause is a ledge that takes one too many running jumps to push himself up onto.

He plops down near the edge facing the Charles River, his legs tucked in towards his chest and his arms resting on top. There’s no stars out this time, the sky too littered with wispy white clouds for any of them to shine through. Still, it feels so vast, so endless; everything feels so fucking big and he’s just this little speck sitting up here on a Saturday night, all fucking alone.

It doesn’t seem fair, that even when he’s here where he’s always wanted to be, even at this place that he’d always thought would be where it all clicked into place— He’s here, he made it. Why wasn’t it clicking? What gear had come loose? What piece too misshapen to fit?

He shoves a hand into his hair and finally lets the thoughts that had been building over the last few weeks – the doubts he’d been viciously shoving down every time they tried to make themselves known – lets them crash through the barrier and fill his head up.

Maybe his mom, Jarvis, maybe they were onto something, he thinks, chewing hard on his bottom lip. Maybe he should have waited. Let his body catch up. But then would his brain have raced on ahead again? It feels like either way, it won’t fit. He’s two parts that would never run at the same pace, two different components tied up in one ridiculously out-of-sync machine.

He blows out his lip with a frustrated puff, then flops back onto his back and just stares up at the dark night sky.

He’s somehow still lying there hours later when his phone rings. The shrill ring in the peaceful night air jolts him out of his sleepy reverie and sends his heart into a frenzy. He feels a strange twist in his gut when he gets a look at the name on the screen.

“Hey mom,” he starts cautiously. “Everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Tony. Just wanted to speak to my son, that’s all.”

Something warm unfurls in his chest. Between the lilt of her words and the late hour on a Saturday night, the likelihood that she’s drunk is ridiculously high. Still, a call’s a call. With a small smile, he hooks one arm under his head and settles in to his mom’s tale of the latest gala Howard had dragged her off to.

It’s almost like being at home again, back in the days when he was young enough that Howard still tolerated him underfoot. They’d come home from their parties and Howard would disappear off to their bedroom to pass out flat on his bed while his mom would come creeping in to Tony’s room, still dressed to the nines but for her shoes, which she’d drop outside the door.

She’d climb onto his bed, her jewelry jangling, and the scent of her perfume (and, more often than not, alcohol) would fill his nostrils as he’d curl up next to her under his blankets. (She’d woken him, the first couple of times, with a soft hand on his shoulder. But soon enough Tony’d learned to wait up for her, on those nights when she and Howard put on their faces.)

He’d loved those moments when it was just them in the dead of the night, his mom telling him stories of a world he didn’t know, or listening with a proud smile as he told her about his latest experiment, or stroking a hand gently through his hair as she crooned a soft lullaby. It felt like they were the only two souls in the world.

It’s been years and years since they’ve had that, of course. But if he closes his eyes now, he’s almost back there between the warm sheets, with his mother’s voice in his ear whispering everything back to rights.

“How are you doing?” she asks eventually, when they’ve both caught their breath from giggling about the poor congressman who’d made a grab at a passing cocktail waitress and gotten a face full of tuna tartare for his trouble. “Getting on okay? Eating alright?”

Tony shrugs, even though he knows his mom can’t see. He thinks she knows anyway. “Everything’s great, mom.” He fills her in on his classes, tells her about the drumming group he might join, about all the kids on his floor cooking together and playing video games when they’re fed up of differential equations. He doesn’t tell her that he sees and hears these things mostly from his room.

They chat for a little longer, Tony indulging his mom as she gossips on about one of her society groups, giving her the attention she no longer gets at home. Soon, though, they’re both yawning too much to even finish a sentence and Tony’s toes have finally started to go numb from the cold so he bids his mother goodnight and makes a move back to his room.

The party seems to have wound down – there’s no sound drifting over from his dorm and it looks mostly dark as he approaches. He’s in the stairwell up to his floor when his phone rings again, scarcely ten minutes after his last call had ended. It’s Howard this time and Tony sighs, holding off on answering until he’s back in his room with the door shut behind him. He barely gets out his ‘hello’ before Howard is off, launching into a rant about how he’s not ‘wasting his money for Tony to go bang on some drum’. Tony pulls the phone away from his ear and lets Howard’s voice wash over him from afar, the words somehow soaking under his skin and sweeping ice over the gentle warmth his mother had left behind.

When Monday, 7:30pm rolls around, Tony’s right back where he usually his – throwing a tennis ball at the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [Stata Center](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6e/MIT's_Stata_Center.jpg), as designed by Frank Gehry (this picture really doesn't do it justice)


	7. Thursday, October 5th 2006

_ Thursday, October 5th 2006 _

It’s only a matter of time before someone complains. He thinks it only takes this long because unlike Tony, most of his neighbors don’t actually spend all goddamn day in their rooms.

But Tony doesn’t expect the person on the other side of the door to be _him_.

James Rhodes looks infinitely more tired than the last time Tony had spoken to him, way back during the Orange Tour. Tony thinks he’s maybe seen him around the floor once, twice, but he hadn’t realized they shared a wall.  

Rhodes, dressed in an oversized MIT hoodie and a pair of baggy grey sweats, is rubbing relentlessly at one eye with the heel of his hand and gesturing wildly with a pencil in the other.

Tony abruptly realizes he’s been talking this entire time and tunes back in just in time to hear “—because I’m trying to figure out this fucking 18.02 p-set and your constant thumping isn’t helping. Now,” Rhodes says, stabbing his pencil in Tony’s direction, “unless you can tell me what the hell a directional derivative is, I’m gonna need you to keep it down a bit.”

“Rate of change of w as you move a coordinate in an arbitrary direction,” Tony recites reflexively.

Rhodes just blinks at him. “Uh, what?”

“Directional derivative,” Tony says, dragging the words out, as if teaching a foreign language.

For as blank as Rhodes looks, Tony might as well be. He sighs. “So you’ve got your graph right?” he says and he drops his grip on the door to curve his right hand like a mountain. “You’re basically trying to find the slope in a particular direction.” He sticks his left finger to a point on his right and wiggles it, then drops his hands. They bounce off his jeans with a loud slap. “You really just have to use the chain rule.”

That, at last, seems to spark _some_ recognition in Rhodes’s eyes. “Oh,” Rhodes says, though he still sounds very unsure.

Tony rolls his eyes and shoves at Rhodes’s shoulder, turning him around and back towards his own room. “C’mon, I’ll show you.” Rhodes shuffles forward agreeably.

Rhodes is undoubtedly in a double – besides the fact that the room is substantially bigger than Tony’s own, half the room is in complete disarray while the other half could be the inside of a furniture showroom. The twin bed is neatly and precisely made, which even Tony knows is shocking for an 18-year-old boy living on his own for the first time. The only sign that this half of the room is being inhabited is the sprinkle of papers and textbooks across the desk and the clunky laptop pushed to one corner. A framed poster of a shuttle launch hangs on the wall just over the desk, which stands in stark contrast to the fraying posters, photos and ticket stubs plastered carelessly all over the walls on the other side of the room.

To Tony’s total lack of surprise, Rhodes goes straight to the bare side of the room and leans over his desk, tugging his notebook to the front of the mess. His roommate is nowhere to be found.

“Nice place,” Tony says, his hands shoved in his pockets and either Rhodes doesn’t hear the snideness in his voice or chooses to ignore it. Instead, Rhodes grabs his roommate’s desk chair and tugs it over to his side until it’s positioned next to his own. Tony ambles over and hitches his bony butt up onto the desk instead, bare feet on the seat of the roommate’s chair.

Rhodes purses his lips but holds his tongue. He tosses a sheaf of paper onto Tony’s lap instead and Tony blinks at it until the black smudges resolve into Rhodes’s 18.02 p-set. He flips back and forth between the pages for a few seconds, then glances up to find Rhodes watching him, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“So can you help me?” Rhodes says, a quiet desperation to the words. Considering it’s 4am and Rhodes doesn’t even seem to have gotten through the first question, that’s not really surprising.

Tony nods, keeping his expression carefully nonchalant even while his heart is thumping because he’s always been able to help all of them, the other freshmen, sophomores, even some of the juniors, if any of them had just bothered to ask.

Collaboration is common here, encouraged even, as it’s nigh impossible for most of the students to make it through their homework without it. Still, most of the students like to pretend they have some pride, which means going to the fourteen year-old boy genius is out of the question. (It could, of course, be the air of smugness and scorn Tony likes to project but that’s just the reality they have to accept if they want dealings with a Stark).

All this begs the question...

“Where’s your roommate?” Tony asks, as Rhodes scrawls out an equation Tony had led him to. “This is a freshman class, right? Shouldn’t he be working on it too?”

“Punted it,” Rhodes grunts.

“What?”

Rhodes catches the confusion in Tony’s voice and glances up. “Punted? MITspeak for ‘decided to say fuck it and do something more fun instead’?” His brows draw together. “We’ve been here more than a month, how have you not heard any of your friends use that word?”

Tony’s mouth twists and Rhodes seems to get it because he suddenly looks uncomfortable. He glances back down at his work, scratching his head with the end of his pencil.

“Punted means skipping, like what my clever roommate is doing. Tooling is the opposite, which seems an appropriate term for how I feel right now because _even though_ this whole fucking semester is Pass/No Record and I should just be out getting drunk like the rest of them, I find myself sitting here. Working. Like a tool.” His tone turns from helpfully informative to grumbling as he talks and continues to scribble at his paper and Tony can’t help but find it all a little endearing.

“So why aren’t you out getting drunk,” Tony asks, leaning back on his hands, “just like the rest of them?”

“Because I’m an idiot,” Rhodes moans, propping his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. Tony pats him awkwardly on the back and Rhodes rolls his head, balancing his cheek in his hand and looking sideways at Tony. “What about you?”

“Sophomore Standing. I don’t have Pass/No Record.”

“No, I meant-” He sits up straight and gestures widely at the mess on his desk. “Why are you helping me?”

Tony shrugs. “I’m bored. And you’re fun to look at.”

Rhodes’s eyes widen and Tony finds himself sticking his chin out defiantly in response. He might not have thought ahead before he said that but there’s no way he’s taking it back now.

“I mean,” he continues, “look at these guns.” He leans forward and pokes at Rhodes bicep. Rhodes’s whole head turns to follow Tony’s hand. “I’d ask if you’re a football player but our football team’s a joke and that’d just be insulting.”

“Air Force ROTC,” Rhodes tosses out distractedly before he says, stumblingly, “Uh, I don’t…I’m not into guys.”

Tony rolls his eyes at the hesitance in his tone. “Relax, Don Juan, I’m not here to seduce you. I’m just saying, if I’m going to hang out with someone, nice aesthetics sure as hell doesn’t hurt. It’s kinda hard to find around here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Rhodes peers up at him, his expression suddenly all too shrewd for Tony’s liking. “Uh huh. Well thanks, I guess. For the help _and_ the compliment.”

Tony grins, half in relief and half in genuine happiness because this is actually pretty comfortable, this thing between them, and Rhodes is kinda dumb at math but he definitely seems smart in a whole lot of other ways.

“C’mon, sun’s gonna rise soon and you’ve still got four problems to go.”

Rhodes groans loudly and drops his head to the desk with a thunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the probably nonsensical calculus - it has been a long time since i've had to touch that stuff and I didn't exactly learn it well the first time. This was pieced together from a quick glance through MIT's OCW.


	8. Sunday, October 8th 2006

_ Sunday, October 8th 2006 _

“Hey! That was—Tony, tell her the hammer is cheating!”

Tony pauses mid-stride, then takes a step back and cranes his neck sideways at the screen to see what they’re fixated on. “Uh, the hammer is cheating?”

James tosses his controller in disgust as the screen flashes. “You’re damn right it is.”

The tiny, dark-haired girl sprawled in the bean bag on the ground next to him just laughs. She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.

James looks up at Tony from the couch. “You want in on the next round?”

Tony stares at the screen, where the stats from the last round linger. “I—uh—” He wants to play, he really does, but he also doesn’t know how to admit that he doesn’t know how.

James is a step ahead of him though. Before Tony can protest, he’s tugged him down next to him on the ratty green couch and thrust an N64 controller into his hands. “It’s easy. Just pick a character and then proceed to try and knock everyone else the hell off the stage.”

Tony blinks as James goes over all the buttons. He’s only half-listening. Even though he’s passed this little common area countless times – has to, to get to his room – this is the first time he’s stopped. A part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to grab the controller out of his hand and ask him just what the hell he thinks he’s playing at.

But he scrolls through the many unfamiliar characters with only sight heckling from the peanut gallery at his choice and soon their game of Super Smash Bros is underway.

It’s totally chaotic. More than once, Tony commits accidental suicide and he only gets one good hit on the squishy pink blob the girl is playing as. But James is, as the girl’s trash-talking indicates, quite appallingly bad at this and Tony actually manages to smack him off into the ether. He whoops, elated with the tiny victory, and when James mutters a swear at him, he grins.

The round ends pretty quickly, with the pink blob knocking both the boys out in fairly quick succession. Tony leans back against the cushions and taps repeatedly at the ‘A’ button, ready for round two.

“You’re Tony, right?” He looks away from the screen down to the girl in the beanbag. He nods. “I’m Pei-Lin.” She gives a little wave. “Fellow frosh. Haven’t seen you around here much.” There’s a casual curiosity in her words, making them sound more like a question than the true statement they are.

“Yeah, I—uh, busy with school and all, you know.” He doesn’t look at James.

“Gotcha.” She pulls an M&M out of the bag in her lap and pops it into her mouth. “Well, you should come hang out with us more often,” she says through the crunch. “That’s what Pass/No Record is for, right?”

“Tony’s not on Pass/No Record,” James chimes in. “He’s got Sophomore Standing.”

“Huh.” Tony bites his lip. “Well, you should still come hang out with us. Otherwise you might disappear into a pile of proofs and equations and then the police will have to get involved and we’ll all get in trouble for not making you play Smash enough.” Tony just blinks at her and she shrugs. “And who knows, maybe your genius will rub off on me and I’ll finally understand what the hell is going on in 8.01.”

“Homework help is later,” James cuts in. “Right now it’s time for me to kick your ass.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Pei-Lin says laughingly. “Jim, Tony’s clearly never even touched a video game controller and he’s _still_ better than you.”

Tony snorts and when James shoots him a betrayed look, just wiggles further back into the cushions. “Hey, I can’t argue with the truth.”

Pei-Lin leans around the spluttering James and sticks her bag of candy out at Tony. “M&M?”

Tony leans forward to take a handful and then tosses them all into his mouth at once. He needs both his hands free – after all he’s got a game of Super Smash to win.

(Or at least to not lose to James at).


	9. Thursday, October 19th 2006

_ Thursday, October 19th 2006 _

“Jayyyyy, Jimbo, Jamie Lee Curtis—”

“You know, I think I preferred honeybun.”

Tony grins. “You would, wouldn’t you? You little minx.”

James stares at him. “How old _are_ you? 14 or 40?”

“Age is just a number and mine is unlisted.”

James chucks an eraser at him.

It’s another Thursday night (well, technically Friday morning at this point), which means James is working on another 18.02 p-set and Tony’s lying on his bed, ostensibly helping him but at this point, mostly just heckling him.

“What kind of name is James anyway? James, Jimmy, JJ Abrams. Eeyuch, no, Lost is a terrible show, we’re not going with that.” He rolls onto his back and starts tossing his tennis ball up at the ceiling, catching it before it lands on his face. “Jim, Jim Jimeree, Jim, Jim Jimeree, Jim Jim Jereeeee--”

“For god’s sake, Tony, _will you shut up?”_ James snaps.

Tony catches the ball and stares at him, frozen.

After a few quiet seconds, James sighs. “Sorry. I’m just really tired and—”

Tony snorts and James’s eye widen and he just throws up his hands in exasperation and goes back to his work.

Tony tosses the ball up again. “Jam, Jimboree, Jar Jar Binks…”

\--

It turns out that while everyone at the dorm calls him Jim, all of James’s ROTC friends just call him Rhodes. Tony kind of likes that. It lasts about a day before Rhodes turns into Rhodey and then, for some reason, that sticks and is henceforth what he is known as (except when he’s snookums or sugarpie or once, sweet thang. Honeybun is for special occasions).

Rhodey doesn’t throw anything at Tony when Tony first tries the name out. Tony takes that as the stamp of approval he’s sure it’s meant to be.


	10. Saturday, November 11th 2006

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if this is a thing people warn for but this chapter features a bad reaction to recreational marijuana use.

_ Saturday, November 11th 2006 _

Tony had stopped briefly at Senior Haus during Residence Exploration week but hadn’t found anything to hold his interest. The stereotype there was ‘the druggie dorm’ and he’d much preferred the hacker vibes that came off East Campus.

Still, the dorm seems cool enough when they head down into its basement for the bi-annual Deli Haus. The room’s been made up to resemble a speakeasy-cum-diner, complete with low red lighting, cozy booths, and scantily clad students as waitstaff.

He and Rhodey slide into a booth in the back, craning their necks to take it all in. A girl comes up to them a couple of minutes later, wearing a short skirt that barely covers an inch of her huge thighs and she’s all but falling out of the corset she’s wearing. She grins lasciviously down at the two of them and cocks a hip, planting her hand on it. “Hello boys,” she murmurs throatily. “Welcome to Deli Haus, MIT’s premier destination for late-night diner food. We’re completely student-run, from the cooks to the waitstaff, and all proceeds from tonight go straight to Steer Roast.” She pulls out a couple of laminated cards from her back pocket and tosses them onto the table. “Here’s tonight’s menu. I highly recommend the brownies,” she says. “They’re pretty damn special.” She throws them a wink and whirls away to another table.

They pick a menu each and Tony glances quickly through the options. He’d really only wanted to come because of the brownies but he supposes he might as well get some food to go with them.

He looks around for their waitress and sees her a couple of tables over, bending forward while the girl sitting in the booth tucks a bill of some kind into her top. The waitress straightens up with a big grin and tosses her hair. She comes back to their table next and asks, “Made any decisions?”

Tony quickly averts his gaze, hoping she won’t notice the flush in his cheeks in the dim, tinted light and Rhodey just snorts at him.

“I’ll have the omelet,” Rhodey tells her. “Tony?”

“Um, grilled cheese for me please,” he says, looking firmly at the menu he’s holding. “And two brownies.”

“Great! I’ll have that right out for you.”

“Two, Tones?” Rhodey says once she flounces away. “Maybe you oughta start slow.”

Tony shrugs. “I’ve already tried smoking a buncha times. It’ll be fine. Sure _you_ don’t want to try?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “You know I can’t,” he says ruefully. “If ROTC finds out, I’ll lose my scholarship.”

“Think you’re just afraid of a repeat of Halloween,” Tony says through a grin.

“We’re not talking about that,” Rhodey hisses.

Tony laughs. He leans back against the cushy seat, suddenly feeling so relaxed he wonders if he’d already had a brownie without even noticing.

Their food comes soon after and Rhodey digs right in. The brownies come in a little paper bowl, two unevenly, crumbly pieces staring innocuously up at him. He picks one up and sniffs at it.

“What?” Rhodey asks when Tony pulls a face.

“Smells like grass,” Tony says.

Rhodey laughs, long and deep. “I think that’s the _point_ ,” he says.

“No, not like— it literally smells like grass, the kind you’re not supposed to walk across on lawns. That sort of grass.”

Rhodey puts his fork down and pulls the bowl towards him. He picks it up and smells the remaining brownie within and immediately pulls a face.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he says as he puts it back down. He picks up his fork again and shovels a huge bite of omelet into his mouth as he fixes a curious look on Tony.

Tony licks at the brownie with the tip of his tongue, getting just the tiniest of crumbs.

“How is it?” Rhodey asks, once he swallows the food in his mouth.

Tony shrugs. “Too little, couldn’t taste a thing.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes, then gapes because Tony’s decided _fuck it_ and shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

The goddamn brownie tastes just as bad as it smells. The weak taste of cheap chocolate is nowhere near enough to mask the overwhelming taste of stale grass and he feels absurdly like a cow as he chews and chews. Rhodey’s frozen in fascination, his fork hanging from his hand as his small bit of remaining food lays forgotten.

Tony swallows down the huge bite once he’s chewed it as much as he can take. There’s a long moment of silence between the two of them, in which they just stare at each other until Tony finally looks away.

“I feel like you’re waiting for another head to grow out of me or something,” he huffs. “You know it’s not instant, right?”

“What, the head-growing? Yeah, that’s only in the fourth hour.” But his attention is back on his food so Tony lets that little witticism slide. He drops his head back against the seat and nibbles on his grilled cheese, waiting for the brownie to kick in.

Ten minutes or so pass. They make aimless conversation and watch amusedly on as patrons find more and more creative ways to tip their servers.

The girl at the table behind Tony orders the chef’s special – a grilled cheese with a sprinkle of MSG – and soon a guy in an apron comes out from somewhere in the back, carrying a plate in one hand and the biggest shaker Tony has ever seen in the other. The guy sets the food down in front of her, then hefts the shaker up in both hands and leans it carefully over the sandwich. He taps once on the side of the plastic, hard.

An avalanche of white powder comes tumbling out, sending up a thin cloud of the same. The girl immediately starts coughing, small at first, but soon she’s hacking away hard enough that the guy plops the shaker down and starts to pat her nervously on the back. It doesn’t help one bit.

Tony snorts as she smacks the server’s hand away and reaches for a glass of water instead. The server picks up his MSG shaker but lingers there indecisively while she gulps her water down, her chest heaving, and it feels like the funniest thing Tony’s ever seen.

They don’t seem to agree. Both have turned to glare at him as best they can in the dim lighting, though the effect is ruined slightly by the girl’s shaking shoulders as she chokes down another round of coughs. It’s not until Rhodey kicks him hard under the table that Tony slaps a hand over his mouth to try and stifle his giggles.

It doesn’t help. The server opens his mouth, about to say something but then he stops and tilts his head. His eyes go past Tony to the paper bowl on their table, one brownie still sitting in it. “Wait,” he says, looking back at Tony. “How old are you?”

Tony narrows his eyes, laughter suddenly gone. “What’s it to you?”

“Tones, I think it’s time for us to go,” Rhodey says and the next thing he knows, Tony’s being tugged up by the arm. He climbs out of the booth obediently, but then stops with an, “Oh, wait.”

And before either Rhodey or the server has a chance to react, he’s picked up the other brownie and shoved the whole thing in his mouth, just like before. He chews it down a little, then grins at the spluttering server through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Boy, you are going to _regret_ that soon,” Rhodey says but there’s a bit of a singsong to the chastising words so Tony doesn’t really mind.

They’re out on the sidewalk by the time Tony’s swallowed down the other brownie. He shrugs his jacket on as they walk, reveling slightly in the cool air after the stuffiness of the basement. “So,” he says, “where to?” He grins. “Wanna go hacking?”

“Somehow I think climbing on rooftops might be a bad idea after downing two pot brownies.”

“Oh, come on.” Tony swings around to face Rhodey, walking backwards with his arms thrown out. “I’m not even feeling it!”

“Yet. Eating it takes longer.”

“How do _you_ know?” Tony challenges.

“I read up on it earlier,” Rhodey replies simply and Tony rolls his eyes because of _course_ he did.

“Okay,” he says, not wanting to think on that further. “How ‘bout we just wonder down towards the river?” For some reason, he doesn’t want to go inside, not just yet. He’s feeling weirdly claustrophobic.

“Sure,” Rhodey agrees affably.

They don’t go too far – Tony wants to cross the bridge and sit out on one of the docks by the Esplanade but Rhodey immediately vetoes that idea. They end up leaning on the railing by the boathouse, looking out at the glittering Boston skyline with their collars turned up against the wind.

“Now I’m wishing _I’d_ ordered the chef’s special,” Tony says.

Rhodey shakes his head. “Do you think she thought you were supposed to like—” He pinches one nostril closed and sniffs hard, sweeping his head to the side. “Snort the MSG?”

“Do a line of it off the top of the toast?” Tony says laughingly.

“Yeah, just get that sweet, sweet ajinomoto straight into your bloodstream.”

“Maybe they have an extra special special that comes with a syringe?” Tony suggests.

Rhodey chuckles. “Or maybe the suggested intake method is to bathe your face in it. That’s what the waiter seemed to be going for, at least.”

“That does seem like what he was doing.” Tony rubs his hands up and down his arms. “ _Fuck_ , it’s cold. Why are we out here again?”

“Hell if I know. You’re the one that didn’t want to go back to the nice, toasty, dorm with its nice, toasty, radiators,” Rhodey points out.

“I take it back,” Tony declares, tossing one arm wide. “I take it all back. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

It’s still relatively early when they get back to their floor and the common area is completely quiet. Most people are either out at other events or closed up in their own rooms, leaving the two of them with the couch and the N64 to themselves.

They trash-talk each other through about half an hour of GoldenEye when Tony glances down at the controller in his hand and notices something strange.

“Hey,” Tony says and he lifts his left hand slowly to his eye-line, turning it this way and that. Rhodey looks over at him. “Hey,” he says again, frowning. “Rhodey, is this my hand?” There’s a strange buzzing sound in his ears.

“Uh, what?”

“My hand,” he repeats urgently. “Is this my hand?”

Rhodey makes a strangled noise. Tony looks up from his hand enough to see from the twist of his lips that it’s probably a giggle. Tony giggles too. “Wait, Rhodey,” he tries again. “Rho-Rhodey, listen.” He giggles harder but he needs to know. This is _important_. He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “This is _my_ hand?”

Rhodey’s lips are clenched together tight but he nods and that’s enough for Tony. Rhodey would know. He wouldn’t lie to him. He nods back. “Okay,” Tony says.

He’s giggling again, he can’t seem to stop but that’s okay because Rhodey is giggling too and it just sounds so beautiful. So much better than the tinny music coming from the TV. That sounds terrible. Is it supposed to sound like that?

He stands up and switches off the TV. The weird buzzing is gone now, or maybe Tony just can’t hear it over his giggling. God, he’s so fucking high.

“I’m so fucking high,” he says, though he’s not sure Rhodey would understand through all his laughter. He’s laughing so much he can’t stand straight. What if he can’t stop? What if he can never breathe again?

He straightens up, opens his mouth and sucks in as much air as he can, puffing his cheeks out nice and big. He holds it and holds it, until he remembers there’s a second step to breathing and then he blows it all out with a big ‘puh’ sound.

Rhodey is standing in front of him now. His eyes are so, so wide.

“Do you think,” Tony starts, but then he has to stop and take another breath. “That it’s possible to open your eyes so big—” He takes his hands and puts them on his face, pulling his eyelids open with a thumb and index finger on each side. “—so big that your eyes just—” He throws his hands forward and they knock into Rhodey’s chest. “—fall out? Like, to the ground? What’s holding them there?”

“Optic nerve?” Rhodey tries. Tony narrows his eyes. That doesn’t sound right. “They don’t really cover that in 7.012,” he adds.

“Hah!” Tony says. Then he’s giggling again because that’s such a strange word. Is it a word? Or just a noise? Onomatopoeia. What a stupid sounding word for a word about sounds.

“Onomatopoeia sounds stupid,” Tony says and Rhodey snorts.

“Sure does.” Rhodey steps beside him and slings an arm over his shoulder. “Wanna go hang out in your room?” He starts walking before Tony can say anything. It’s probably a good thing because the walk back is _long_. He didn’t know he was living on the Great Wall of China. Maybe they could see his dorm from _space_.

“We should go to space,” Tony says as they plod down the corridor. “It’s super dark. And there’s like—“ He drops his voice to a whisper. “—no sound.”

“That is true,” Rhodey agrees. He’s so agreeable. Why is he just agreeing with everything? He never agress with _anything_. It must be a setup.

Tony blinks because he’s suddenly sitting on his bed. He looks up and Rhodey is still there, standing in front of him, probably thinking of the next way to _trick_ him. Just like with the optic nerve.

“Did you lie?”

Rhodey is frowning. His eyebrows are squeezed together so tight. They look like one long hairy caterpillar. “Lie?”

“I can’t feel my eyes,” Tony whispers. “I can’t feel my eyes, Rhodey!” He inhales sharply. “Or my ears! Oh no! Are they still there?” He claps his hands over his ears, then sighs in relief. “Oh, good. I thought they were gone.” He sticks out the index finger on each hand, about to poke his eyes to see if they’re okay too but two hands stop him.

“You’re okay, Tones,” Rhodey says and Tony looks up at him. “You’re eyes and your ears are right there. You’re good.”

Tony tilts his head. Rhodey’s caterpillar is gone but he still seems frowny. His mouth is upside-down. Maybe Tony should turn upside-down so it’s okay again. But what if he gets stuck that way?

He suddenly realizes his hands are still caught in Rhodey’s. His wrists feel very warm where their skin touches.

“Jeez, Tones, your pulse is _racing._ ” And now that he’s said that, Tony can feel it, can _hear_ the speeding _THUD THUD THUD_ of his heart trying to bang it’s way so hard it explodes out through his bones. He’s gonna explode in a pile of bone dust. He closes his eyes and starts shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth. How will he graduate if he’s bone dust?

The warmth leaves his wrists and are on his face, trying to stop his head from moving. He whines. He needs to get out of this. He can’t be like this forever. He’ll be useless, just a waste of skin and bone dust, just like his father thinks.

“Tony,” a voice calls and it echoes through his brain. _Tony Tony Tony_. He thinks he can see the word written across the inner walls of his head. “Tony, you’re going to be fine. It’s _not_ going to last forever.”

How does he know what he’s thinking? Can he see inside his head? Maybe he’s leaking his thoughts out of his ears. He slaps his hands over his ears again, trying to keep everything in. He’ll be no good to the Stark name if his brain’s leaked out.

But his hands are so heavy. They’re so tired already. He lets them fall back into his lap with a heavy thump.

“That’s it, Tones.” The voice is soft and musical, soothing. Tony opens his eyes to see Rhodey’s face right in front of his. “Hey,” he says. “There you are.”

“I think I should sleep,” Tony manages. His mouth is full of cotton. There’s no room left in it for his tongue.

Rhodey nods. “Okay.” The hands disappear from his cheeks and the rest of Rhodey goes away too. Tony tips sideways until his head hits the pillow, then he pulls his legs up so they’re on top of the sheets. He frowns at the vivid blue pillowcase, wondering if his laundry service had switched to a new detergent because he doesn’t remember the color being that vibrant before.

When he blinks his gaze away from the blue back to the room around him, there’s a multi-colored lump on the floor. He blinks again and the lump resolves into a person in a sleeping bag, a bright white pillow under its head.

“Who are you?” he whispers. Maybe it wasn’t as idiotic as his dad said – maybe there _were_ monsters but not under his bed. They were on his floor, in the middle of the room. In a sleeping bag.

“Tony, it’s just me. It’s Rhodey.” Tony shudders. He blows out a deep breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “I’m right here, Tones. Go to sleep.”

Tony swallows hard. His limbs feel full of sand. He lets the weight pull him down into the mattress, lets his eyes fall shut and carefully counts out the rhythm of the soft breaths from the floor until he falls asleep.


End file.
